Fountains of Mercy Read online

  Don mimicked the heavy accents of the group who settled the northwestern coastal estuary. “Vaat do yew mean, ferklempt?”

  They parted company, and Pete ducked through a few alleys to reach his office without encountering any irate officials or unhappy townsfolk. I’m a hydrologist and civil engineer, not an electrician, he kept reminding people, but they didn’t want to listen. Unless I can see the leak, I can’t help you. He unlocked his office and strolled in, waiting for the lights to come on. Nothing happened. Pete turned around, bent down, and waved his hand over the motion-detector. Nothing, not even the clunk of a dead solenoid. “Glad I’ve got windows.” He opened the shades by hand, letting sunlight flood the spare, half-furnished room. “And hard copies.”

  A hard-copy note waited for him. “Rejected. River levels too unstable to support necessary equipment.” He read. What the—? Pete looked from the note to the sketch plan of his proposed run-of-river floating mill and water pump. Someone had added footings and fill, turning the floating, current-driven mill into a standard, fixed-position water mill. Oh, for shit’s sake. He’d proposed a floating mill precisely because the Donau Novi rose and fell with the seasons! But someone had reworked his proposal before it reached Bettina and Co. Right. I’ll just set that aside and work on what I’m supposed to be doing, then go pester Gerald, see if he has any suggestions. He gets along better with the managerial side than any of the rest of us.

  Since Cynthia didn’t expect him home before noon, Pete sat down and sketched out a finer version of his ideas for the next stage of the water supply system. He wanted to tap the hills for drinking water, rather than the river. The hills west of the town collected water and the aqueclude at the eastern end of the range had created a rich reservoir of groundwater that supported some enormous springs. Pete drew the side view of the hills, the valley, the low ridge between, and the last kilometers to the city. If the system tapped the sources southwest, where the road would come off the hills, he’d have almost 200 meters of fall that he could use for pressure. The central ridge only rose 150 meters or so, leaving both pressure and a way to slow the flow using an inverted siphon. Pete sketched away, humming quietly, and out of tune, as he worked.

  Only when the light shifted so much that he could no longer see the finest lines did he stop and stretch. His neck caught, and he cursed, then rotated it carefully, working the kink out. Satisfied with his progress for the moment, he closed the blinds and left. He waved his hand over the sensor again on the way out. The lights still failed to respond, but that didn’t surprise him. They’d always planned for emergency drills, and his office got power last of all, after the medical and fire facilities, then residences, businesses, and finally little shops and work areas. Colonial priorities differed from the central worlds, as everyone knew. Pete locked the door and strolled to his and Cynthia’s apartment.

  The summer morning sun beat down, augmenting the heat still radiating from the “stone” walls and pavement of the town despite the cool night. Actually, Pete mused as he ran his fingers over the gritty surface of a wall beside him, since they used local rocks, ground up, melted, and then extruded as blocks, it was stone. Cool inside in summer, warmer inside in winter, a pain-in-the-ass to wire and run pipes under if you didn’t plan ahead, but life-saving at times. He shook his head a little. Who would have thought that leaving Earth’s solar system and settling the galaxy would make medieval construction important again? Probably the same wise soul who’d warned about spaceships, blasters, and anything else built by the lowest bidder.

  Pete turned off the main street, down a quiet lane, and strolled into a cluster of eleven apartments built around a courtyard. Cynthia had picked this square because she liked the wrought-iron-looking trim on the safety fences on the upper levels. Pete liked the central location and rapid access to the main infrastructure control center. Three children came stampeding out of the shadows and he jumped back out of the way as the Lei family went out for “fresh air.” “Sorry Mr. Babenburg,” Pat Lei said. “They stayed up too late and are still wired for light and noise.”

  Pete waved off her apology. “I was, too, when I was their age. Going to the park?”

  “Out to the farm. Today is petting day.” Pete saw the wagon behind Sam Lei, loaded with snacks.

  “That should wear them out a little,” Pete agreed. “Have a good trip.”

  “Thanks.” Sam and Pat would be pulling at least one of the kids in the wagon on their return trip, Pete knew. He waved and climbed up a flight of steps to his and Cynthia’s level, traveling around one side of the square to reach their door. He opened it and inhaled the scent of something good. “I’m home, love.”

  “Oh good. You can stir,” a melodious voice called from the kitchen. Pete dropped his rucksack by the door, walked into the kitchen, and took over stirring. “I just need to get something out of the oven.” Cynthia disappeared out the front door. A few minutes later she returned with three loaves of bread and a pan of rolls. Pete struggled manfully not to drool on the floor as the scent of fresh-baked bread filled the kitchen.

  “Cynthia, beloved, paragon of womanhood, source of all beauty, pearl without price, please tell me that some of those are for us.” He tried not to beg.

  She smiled. “All of them are. Now go wash up so I can serve the food.”

  The food tasted as good as it has smelled. “I am so glad you talked me into gas appliances,” Pete admitted once he’d had a second helping and another roll.

  “So are Don’s wife and Ann Montoya. I let them use the stove while I loaded the solar oven on the roof. We’re going to have a lot of unhappy people until the power is restored and all the cookers and coolers have been repaired.”

  Don finished mopping up the last bit of curry sauce with the roll. “If they threw the breakers, there should not have been any problems?”

  Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Dear, not everyone can get to their breakers, despite what the construction regulations claim. And all the food extruders at the sub-sett housing complex were still on line.”

  Aw shit. That means at least three hundred people without quick access to food. Ugh. Not my problem, but still not good. “I assume the repair people have started work.”

  She shrugged and brushed away a bit of honey-blond hair that had escaped her bun. “I hope so. I was going to check at the chapel and see if any provision had been made, just in case.” Cynthia finished her roll and licked a last bit of sauce off her fingers. “Do you think this will happen again?”

  Her husband had been wondering that himself. He leaned back in his chair and thought. “I hope not. Things are going to be tight until we can get replacements for whatever got toasted, shorted, and what will wear out early from overuse. But, Murphy was a planetary meteorologist as well as an engineer and an optimist, so I’d assume we will. Not as strong, but probably at least one or two more solar burps.”

  “Peter Babenburg, you have no poetry in your soul,” His wife of thirty years scolded, smiling. “Those beautiful dancers and colors in the sky, and you call them ‘solar burps.’ Tsk, tsk.”

  He shrugged. “I’m an engineer. My last attempt at poetry was banned under the Deepak-Gormo Treaty stipulations, remember?” He preferred to draw and dig rather than write or talk. Pete got up, collected the dishes from the table, and started for the dish-sterilizer, then remembered. He put them in the sink instead. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner, light of my heart,” and he kissed his wife’s still-smooth cheek.

  “You are welcome. Will you be home tonight?”

  “Yes. I need to go talk to Don and Tom Kirkland, but I’ll be home around four or so.”

  She shook her head. “No, around six. Shoo,” and she kissed him, then flapped a drying towel at him, chasing him out of her domain. He staged a tactical retreat.

  He found Don overseeing repairs to the transformer serving the subsistence-settlers’ housing-complex, or sub-sett, as the engineers and utility workers called it. At least this time the residents we
ren’t swarming the workers, demanding favors or yelling that they should go faster. Enough people had seen what happened when a human crossed high-voltage lines that they stayed well clear now. That was the last time anyone tried to do their own work, too, I seem to recall. Especially after the venters pulled the scent into the main ducts because of where the body landed. Pete understood why Colonial Plantation LTD had agreed to settle over a million indigents on Solana, but oh it frustrated him: the people living in the housing section in the city were now the third generation that refused to take care of themselves. He wondered yet again which bureaucrat with a sick sense of humor had labeled them “improved settlers.” Oh, a few managed to get out and make their own way as full citizens, but most stayed in the bureau housing, eating minimal rations and watching entertainment holos. I’d go mad.

  Don took a break from his current task and walked over. “What’s up? You finally decide to cross-train on electrical work?”

  “Nah. I still need to see my leaks,” Pete lobbed back, as usual. “I want to go on with planning that floating mill and pump. You have any problems, so long as I don’t tinker with the sewer inflow sensors and the floodgate wires?”

  “Nope. You talked to Tom Kirkland yet?” Pete shook his head. “Do that first. He’ll have some ideas about the mechanics and flotation needed.” Don glanced up at the sky and beckoned Pete over, a little farther from watchers and gossip gleaners. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to get flamed again, Pete. Marie’s already talking about preparing to go black for an extended period.”

  “Admin won’t like that talk.” But Pete agreed, even as he said what he was supposed to.

  “Admin has other problems. Administratrix Senior Monsiérvo is already warning that we need to get the transports back and running before there are psychological problems stemming from the lack of noise.”

  “You are shitting me,” Pete sighed.

  Don shook his head, grinning through his beard. “Nope. Says the lack of aural stimulation could cause psychological trauma in sensitive individuals and the newly arrived.”

  Pete heard footsteps behind him, so he replied, “That is certainly a consideration.” He ducked out of the way before anyone could try and draft him for the grunt work. “Thank you for the update.” Rather than spend any more time in the sub-sett, Pete doubled back, then cut north to the edge of the city. He took the pedestrian gate out of the wall and walked east, upstream. The river murmured beside him, carrying secrets in its blue waters.

  Tom Kirkland’s workshop sat near the banks of the river, above the flood line but close enough to catch driftwood and to make putting the boats in and out easier. You can always tell a colony world, Pete thought, as the smells of hot metal and sawdust hit his nose, drifting over the dark, damp smell of a healthy river. You find both ends of the tech spectrum within meters of each other.

  A sharp whiff of chemical made Pete’s eyes water, and he skirted around the boatyard fence until he found the gate closest to Tom’s office. He started to knock on the frame of the open door but hesitated when he heard multiple voices all steadily rising in volume. “What do you mean the second welder’s out of commission?” That was Virgil, Tom’s assistant. Maybe I’ll just stay out in the fresh air for a bit.

  “I turned it off boss. No one told me we were supposed to unplug them and throw the breakers as well as grounding everything.” The whining tone kept Pete outside, and he eased back from the doorway. Tom didn’t tolerate whining.

  “And even though every other man, woman, and mermaid in this business was unplugging and throwing breakers, you somehow didn’t notice?”

  “That’s not my job. I’m just an apprentice. Ms. Jackson’s supposed to make sure I do everything right.”

  Pete backed a meter farther away from the door, getting clear of the line of fire. A third voice, deceptively placid and almost feminine, observed, “Correction. You were an apprentice. You are now fired for not taking responsibility for your fuck up and also for whining. Get out. Your last wages are in your account.”

  “But it’s not my fault!”

  Heavy steps and the sound of something squeaking and dragging came from the doorway. “If you keep whining I’ll dock you for the equipment. Think about what that will do to your indenture.” Pete caught a glimpse of a pimply, square-faced young man scrambling to get out the door before Virgil threw him over the fence. Pete waited for the sound of hands being brushed off before knocking. “Come in.”

  Pete stuck his head in. When nothing flew at it, he squirmed the rest of him around the stack of parts, materials, and only-the-Lord-knew-what piled near the door and found Tom Kirkland and Virgil Evangelios looking at the remains of a remote programmable arc welder. “Is it terminal?”

  “No, that’s the terminal,” Tom joked, pointing to a crispy bit. “We can salvage some parts and pieces, but the core’s gone. Idiot.” Tom always took people off guard, Pete thought. Almost two meters tall, shoulders about as wide, with a light, high voice and smooth manner. “You here to apologize for making the sun sneeze?”

  “Above my pay grade. Talk to Don. I’m here to ask about putting a mill on a boat.”

  Tom folded his arms, and Virgil squinted, the wrinkles hiding his black eyes. “In pieces? Or moving it all at once?”

  “Nope,” Pete folded his arms. “A floating mill, one we can push out into the river and use to grind stuff, or saw, or what-have-you, then bring back to shore so we don’t block the run of the river or have to worry about floods.”

  Virgil shrugged. “Not impossible, just hard. And heavy.”

  “I can’t do it this season,” Tom said. “Let me think about and look at materials and people. Who would buy it?”

  “I suppose the city, or one of the trades groups. Especially if we add a small pump or generator.”

  Tom and Virgil exchanged looks before turning back to Pete. “You’re worried about more of these too.” He kicked the dead equipment side-plate.

  “I am.”

  Susannah “Basil” Peilov smiled at the guests enjoying breakfast at Crownpoint’s pavilion. “Can I get you anything else?”

  The white-haired man shook his head, his mouth full. His younger friend, or perhaps son, lifted the tea flask, checking. “Nope, thanks. Still pretty heavy.”

  “Then I’ll leave you in peace.” She collected their empty bun basket and returned to the kitchen area.

  Tildie, her brown-haired sister wife, noticed the empty basket. “Need a refill?”

  “No. They’re set. May need more tea in a few minutes.” She tapped the last crumbs into the compost, slid the used napkin into the hamper, and tucked the basket into the sterilizer. Kos insisted on keeping the old boiling water dish-cleaning system, and Basil could see where it made sense, although she hated the steam that filled the kitchen when she opened the loading and unloading doors, especially in summer. He should have to empty and refill it on an August evening after we’ve been cooking all day, she snorted. It might be enough to change his mind. Or not. Once Kos got an idea in his head, nothing short of a message from the Lord could shake it loose.

  Tildie turned back to cutting up the last of the beef. “We’re going to have to switch to vegetarian after today. There’s a little ham and dry-cure sausage for breakfasts and sandwiches, but no more ‘meat’ meat until the fall.” She scooped the strips into a large bowl. “Except for chicken. We still have chicken, but only enough for once a week, I think. Unless we eat the layers.”

  “We can do air-casseroles and salads, with fresh breads,” Basil suggested. “Those are cool and light, but tasty. The herbs are kicking in, and we have lots of butter and eggs. I’ll see if Kos wants to grind and bag some of that flour-maize blend for drop crusts and individual pies.”

  “Do that,” Tildie said, adding a handful of fresh basil and thyme to the meat before stirring it. After hesitating with one hand between two bottles, she reached for a third and drizzled a dollop of flavored vinegar into the bowl, then stirred with e
nough force to flip bits of beef strip into the air. “Don’t worry about sparing the flour. Two more reservations cancelled this morning. The messages are in Kos’s office.”

  I should be upset. But we need a little time for harvest, or else we won’t have anything to eat ourselves, let alone to serve to guests. Basil measured two spoons of tea leaves into the strainer and set more water on the burner, adjusting the flame to medium heat. She glanced back into the dining area, but the men appeared content to work on the rest of their bacon and eggs and fruit. The older one pointed to the view out the large window.

  Basil agreed with what she thought he was saying. The huge panes of glass let guests see the lush, gently rolling land stretching west from Crownpoint to the edge of the Triangle Mountain foothills. The settlement planners and colonists had hidden the town and settlements in folds of land or under canopies of trees, giving the illusion that no sapient creatures lived in the bucolic landscape. Basil imagined she could see the white and creamy spots of flocks of sheep and shahma on the distant hills. Kos Peilov’s holdings remained some of the prettiest on ColPlat XI, in Basil’s opinion. Well, nothing can make a spaceport and administrative city pretty, she reminded herself, no matter how creative the designers think their plans are. Thank you Lord that Kos brought me out of there.

  The whirr of the big mixer distracted Basil from her musings. Tilde had announced yesterday that she’d be making yeast bread, two-dozen loaves worth, and seemed to be making good on her promise. Basil pulled two crates of eggs out of the cooler, counted fifty, and set them on a tray so they wouldn’t roll off the counter. By the time she finished and glanced back at the dining room, the men seemed to be through eating. She dusted off her hands and left the kitchen.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, approaching the table.

  The older man got to his feet. “No, thank you. Everything is good, but we need to be on our way.”